beyond the wealth of kingdoms; for he died in the bloom of youth, before sorrow touched him, fighting for his native land

He did not succeed in procuring a horse, which is always dir ficult just before a battle; and his brave young soul revolted from inaction at that moment. He must take his part in the action, in one capacity if not in another; if not as captain, then as private; and this resolution was speedily carried out. Procuring a musket and cartridge-box-old friends of his before his promotion—he sought for his old Mississippi company, entered its ranks, charged with them, and fell, shot through the heart. He died where he fell, and sleeps in the weird path of Manassas. God rest his soul!

Such was the fate of Hardeman Stuart-an event which brought the tears to many eyes, albeit unused to the melting moodand here my sketch might end. I will add, however, a somewhat curious incident which occurred a day or two after the battle.

General Stuart followed the enemy on Sunday, and coming up with his rear at the bridge over Cub Run, had a slight artillery engagement, and took many prisoners. The bridge was destroyed and the cavalry turned to the left, and making a circuit came into the Little River turnpike, at the mouth of the Frying Pan road. Proceeding down the turnpike in the direction of Germantown, a squadron captured a company of the enemy's cavalry; and advancing further to a small tavern on the roadside, took prisoners another company who were feeding their horses in fancied security at the place.

This cavalry formed a portion of that which had operated in the battles around Groveton; and in possession of one of the men was found Hardeman Stuart's coat, captured with his horse. and accoutrements on the mountain.

There was no trouble at all in identifying the coat. In the breast pocket was his captain's commission.

XI.

JENNINGS WISE,

THE CAPTAIN OF "THE BLUES."

I.

I FOUND in an old portfolio, the other day, the following slip from a Norfolk paper of the year 1862:

"The Confederate steamer Arrow arrived here this morning, from Currituck, having communicated with a steamer sent down to Roanoke Island under a flag of truce. She brought up the bodies of Captain O. J. Wise, Lieutenant William Selden, and Captain Coles. Captain Wise was pierced by three balls, and Lieutenant Selden was shot through the head. The Yankees who saw Captain Wise during the fierce and unequal contest, declare that he displayed a gallantry and valour never surpassed. Alas, that he has fallen in a contest so unequal! But who has fallen more honourably, more nobly? Young Selden, too, died at his gun, while gallantly fighting the enemy that had gathered in so superior numbers upon our shores.

"Last night, when the steamer arrived at Currituck, General Wise directed that the coffin containing the remains of his son be opened. Then, I learn from those who were present, a scene transpired that words cannot describe. The old hero bent over the body of his son, on whose pale face the full moon threw its light, kissed the cold brow many times, and exclaimed, in an agony of emotion: 'Oh, my brave boy, you have died for me, you have died for me.""

What an epitaph!

The gray-haired father, forgetting the past and the future, losing sight, for the moment, of the war and all other things— bending and weeping over the dead body of the son who "had displayed a gallantry and valour never surpassed "-giving his heart's blood to the cause he loved-the annals of tragedy contain no spectacle more touching!

Of the remarkable young man who thus poured forth his blood, and passed away, before the age of thirty, in defence of his native soil, I propose to give a few personal recollections. It is hard that a noble soul should go from the haunts of the living, to be remembered only by the small circle of loving friends who knew and appreciated him. And though I shall not attempt anything in the shape of a memoir of young Jennings Wise, my few words may not prove uninteresting to those who watched, from a distance, his meteoric career, and perhaps admired his brave spirit, while ignorance of his real character led them to misunderstand him.

Jennings Wise!

How many memories that name recalls!-memories of gentleness and chivalry, and lofty honour, to those who knew him truly-of fancied arrogance and haughty pride, and bloody instincts, to those who accepted common rumour for their estimate of him. For there were many rumours of this description afloat and it must be acknowledged that there was some excuse for the misconception. He had little of the spirit of conciliation if he believed a man to be his foe; managed early to arouse bitter enmities; and continued to defy his opponents without deigning to explain his character or his motives. Before he was better understood-when the mists were only beginning to clear away, and show his virtues of devotion, and patriotism, and kindness-death called him.

Born in Virginia, and going in his early manhood to Europe, as Secretary of Legation, he there perfected himself in riding, fencing, and all manly exercises; studying political science, and training himself, consciously or unconsciously, for the arena upon which he was to enter soon after his return. He came to Virginia at a time when the atmosphere was stifling with the heat

of contending factions in politics, and becoming the chief editor of the Richmond Enquirer, plunged into the struggle with all the ardour of a young and ambitious soldier who essays to test the use of those arms he has been long burnishing for battle. He did not lack for opponents, for a great contest was raging, and the minds of men were red-hot with the mighty issues of the time. He had scarce thrown down the glove when many hands were extended to take it up. Then commenced a strife on the political arena, in which the opponents fought each other with bitter and passionate vehemence. What the pen wrote, the pistol, unhappily, was too often called upon to support; and the young politician was ere long engaged in more than one duel, which achieved for him a widely-extended notoriety and a venomous party hatred. Of these quarrels I do not design to speak. It is no part of my purpose to inquire who was to blame or who was faultless; and I would not move the ashes resting now upon the details of those unhappy affairs, under which the fire perhaps still smoulders, full of old enmities. That he was carried away by passion often, is unfortunately too true; but he had no love for conflict, and publicly declared his aversion to "private war." Unhappily the minds of his political opponents were too profoundly swayed by the passions of the epoch to give him credit for these declarations. They were not listened to, and the young politician became the mark of extreme political hatred. The sins of passion and the heated arena were regarded as the coolly planned and deliberately designed crimes of a moral monster, who had never felt the emotion of pity or love for his brother man. Intelligent and honourable persons believed that all the young man's instincts were cruel; that his hatreds were capricious and implacable; that his nature was that of the tiger, thirsting for blood; his conscience paralysed or warped by a terrible moral disease. His splendid oratory, his trenchant pen, the dash and courage of his nature, were allowed; but these were his only "good gifts; " he was, they said, the Ishmael of the modern world.

All this he knew, and he continued his career, trusting to time. He fought for secession; joined the First Virginia Regi

ment, and served at Charlestown, in the John Brown raid. Then war came in due time. He was elected captain of the Blues-the oldest volunteer company in Virginia-took the leadership from the first, as one born to command, and fought and fell at that bloody Roanoke fight, at the head of his company, and cheering on his men.

His body was brought back to Richmond, laid in the capitol, and buried, in presence of a great concourse of mourners, in Hollywood Cemetery. That was the end of the brief young life-death in defence of his native land, and a grave in the beloved soil, by the side of the great river, and the ashes of Monroe, brought thither by himself and his associates.

Then came a revulsion. His character was better understood; his faults were forgotten; his virtues recognised. Even his old opponents hastened to express their sympathy and admiration. It was remembered that more than once he had refused to return his adversary's fire; that championship of one whom he loved more than life had inflamed his enmity-no merely selfish considerations. His sweetness of temper and kindness were recalled by many, and the eyes which had been bent upon him with horror or hatred, shed tears beside the young soldier's grave.

Oh, tardy justice of good men! Oh, laurel-wreath upon the coffin !-soft words spoken in the dull, cold ear of death! This soul of chivalry and honour-this gentle, kindly, simple heart— had been branded as the enemy of his species-as a haughty, soulless, pitiless monster!

In speaking of this young Virginian, I wish to espouse no personal or party quarrel-to arouse none of those enmities which sleep now-to open no old wounds, and to fan into flame none of the heart-burnings of the past. Those who contended with him most bitterly have long ago forgotten their feud. Many shed tears for the noble youth when he fell, and speak of him now as one of those great Virginians whom it is the pride of our soil to have produced. They know him better now, and understand that this man was no hater of his species-no Ishmael of civilization, cold and haughty and implacable—but a